Without a Witness
by viridianjane
Summary: When Mithian escapes her rooms in Camelot after slipping the key from Morgana's hand, she makes it to the physician's chambers, setting off a chain of events that will have consequences for everyone she knows and cares for.
1. Chapter 1

They're taken, one knight at a time, through blood and death and violence. Morgana steps over the body of a boy, who under all the grime of battle has a beautiful face; pale and fae, still round with some of the softness of youth.

 _Or had, I suppose._ She wipes the bottom of her shoe on his sleeve. The body is already stiff, and doesn't give under her weight.

She continues on her way, a smile playing at her lips.

The castle of Nemeth is large and pale with a dome in its centre; soft browns and blues and golds are the kingdom's colours, painted on stones and embroidered on tapestries and growing from the earth in the expansive gardens. Morgana lets her magic flow from her steps, bringing death as she walks.

Odin meets her at the entrance of the castle, and holds out an arm for her. She barely acknowledges the gesture, rolling her eyes and muttering about the irritativity of _men,_ and hikes up her worn skirts to step over a large piece of rubble and into the castle.

"Come, Odin," she calls over her shoulder. "We aren't quite finished, yet."

King Rodor is on his knees with Odin's sword at his throat, and Princess Mithian is held down by two of Odin's men.

Odin leers at Mithian, spouting nonsense about beauty and virtue as he drags fingers down her cheek. _Pig,_ Morgana sneers. _But one with an army._ She paces, her expression turning hungry as she contemplates the two before her.

"Why have you done this?" Rodor demands.

"You should choose your allies more carefully. Any friend of Camelot is an enemy of mine," she snaps.

Rodor is an old man, useless for anything but a hostage.

 _Mithian,_ however, is the perfect pawn to have crawling into Arthur's court. Morgana seethes, hissing through clenched teeth. _A court that should be mine!_ She lunges at the princess, laughing when it causes her to flinch.

Decided, she steps back, brushing dirt and dust from her skirt. "You!" She barks at a guard standing by the door to the north wing. "Take the old man and the princess to the dungeons. I'll be there to deal with them later."

The royals leave without a word, heads held high. For a moment, Morgana is impressed by their resilience. _Not for much longer, however._ She plays with the bracelet adorning her wrist. _Not long at all._

"So," Odin says, "we divide the spoils as agreed."

Morgana walks to the throne, drags a nail as hard as iron across its golden shine. "Take whatever you wish."

"Then what is your business here, Morgana?"

She snaps her gaze to him, making a face of mock outrage, "Why, I seek what is rightfully mine! I seek the throne of Camelot."

She steps down from the dais and walks right up to Odin, cocking her head in challenge. "And for that I need an army."

Odin narrows his eyes. "My army."

She raises her eyebrows. "I believe they've showed their mettle today."

"And what do I receive in return for this service?"

She leans in, into his space and close enough that she can smell him, smell the scent of blood and death and rot, and she whispers, " _Arthur._ To do with as you wish."

It's close to midnight when the guards bring news of two unknown riders coming for the citadel. Leon meets them in the courtyard, demanding they identify themselves; when one rider drops from their horse and reveals herself as Princess Mithian, Leon is shocked by the state of her.

"Sir Leon." She sways where she stands. "It gladdens my heart to see you." And before she collapses, Leon is there to catch her, calling over his shoulder for guards and for Gaius and for Arthur.

A hand on his arm alerts him to Merlin's presence, and his expression is so somber it's nearly unrecognizable — enough so that it gives Leon pause.

"Come, follow me," Merlin tells him. "We'll take her to a guest chamber immediately. Someone tell Gaius we'll be in the west wing!" He calls over his shoulder.

Princess Mithian is tense in Leon's arms, and though she's clearly only holding on to consciousness by a thread, she watches Merlin with eyes half open and a sigh on her lips. When Merlin leads them up the stairs and into the safety of the citadel, Princess Mithian finally relaxes into Leon's hold.

Merlin wraps the princess in wool, careful to lay her comfortably on the bed, trying not to fuss too much as Gaius checks her vitals and for any injuries.

Hilda, her maid, wrings her hands in the corner. "She means everything to me — truly, _everything._ Please, my mistress, you must help her, you must, oh you _must_ – "

Gaius sends him a _look_ , and Merlin begrudgingly tries to reassure her and convince her to leave for her own chambers for the night. She refuses, insistent, and eventually Merlin and Gaius let her be.

Mithian doesn't speak a word the entire time, her skin pale and clammy and eyes unfocused; something in Merlin's chest tightens with worry.

"What is it? Is there anything wrong?" He asks Gaius, once his mentor finished with the Princess and leads Merlin over to the corner of the room. Over at the bed, Hilda has brought up a chair to sit with her mistress, stroking the lady's hand.

"Exhaustion, dehydration, trauma. No physical injuries as I can see, but clearly something awful has happened in Nemeth."

"Then we should tell Arthur?" He's reluctant to disturb her, now that she's safe and able to get some rest. Gaius must be able to tell, but he doesn't question him beyond a curious quirk of his brow.

"I believe the best thing is for her to rest, for now. It can surely wait until the morning," he concedes.

Merlin nods. "I'll let Arthur know."

"How is she?" Arthur sits up in his chair as soon as Merlin enters the room. The curtains on the bed are closed, allowing Guinevere to sleep on undisturbed.

"She's weak, and clearly exhausted, but she'll live."

"Good. I'll speak to her at once." He rises from his chair, heading immediately for the door.

Merlin steps into his path, holding his hands out in front of him. "No, she's not to be disturbed until morning."

"This is important."

"And so is her health," Merlin sighs. Arthur isn't happy, but Merlin insists. "Nothing useful will come from questioning her now, Arthur. She's barely conscious."

Arthur turns around and drops unceremoniously back into his chair; he leans forward with his elbows on his knees and his face in his palms. He sighs, dragging his hands down his face. "To ride all through the night, something awful must have happened."

Merlin's eyes soften, and he leans against the door as he steps out to leave. "We'll find out in the morning, _after_ everyone's gotten some rest."

When Merlin arrives in the morning to take Mithian to the council chambers, he frowns when he sees that she still has dark circles under her eyes. When she slips her arm through his and places her hand in the crook of his elbow, he can feel her shaking.

Merlin is about to ask if perhaps they should wait a little longer, if she would like something from Gaius at least, but before he can say anything Hilda is behind her and places a hand on her shoulder.

If Merlin wasn't already paying attention, he might not have noticed Mitian stiffen, causing Merlin to stop. "Is everything alright?"

But it's not Mithian who answers; Hilda steps forward and says almost forcefully, "It's fine."

Merlin narrows his eyes. "My Lady?"

Mithian tugs on her right sleeve and gives him a watery smile. "It's alright, Merlin."

Mithian's tale is tragic; forces much larger than their own stormed the city under Odin's colours, slaughtering all who crossed their path. Mithian doesn't know how many survived — she and her father managed to escape with the help of a few guards, but King Rodor was wounded and left unable to finish the journey to Camelot.

Mithian rode on alone, except for her maid Hilda.

"Please," her voice is just above a whisper. "They will be searching for us. My father is an old man, and wounded. There is no way he can fend for himself.

"You're my only hope, Arthur."

Arthur leans forward in his throne and nods. "Mithian, I understand how you must be feeling. I will do everything in my power to help you."

Mithian thanks him while blinking a couple of tears from her eyes. Merlin watches, unease settling like a fog in his lungs, as Mithian slips her sorrow behind a mask and a grateful smile.

Mithian tells them that Rodor is hidden in the ancient fortress of King Loath, three leagues from their border. Arthur agrees to go along with the Knights of the Round Table, and they plan to leave at first light with Mithian leading the way.

"Odin has long been after your blood, Arthur. If he finds out about this you could have an entire army at your backs," Gaius warns as they all get up to leave for the night.

"That's true. But Odin doesn't know where Rodor is and we do. By the time they track Rodor to the tomb, we'll be long gone."

A raven caws at the window, wings flapping in distress. Morgana hushes it, speaking low in the language of the Old Religion. She ties a message to its leg and releases the bird into the night.

Mithian watches, breathing hard and pressed closely to the wall. Slowly, slowly, she sneaks backwards; the hem of her nightgown is light on the stone floor, barely making a sound. Blindly, she feels for the wood of the door, not willing to risk taking her eyes off the witch.

Her breath catches when she feels the grain, but it's too late; Morgana turns as if she felt Mithian's touch on her own skin and lashes out with her magic. Mithian is brought crashing to the ground, crying out in pain. Morgana walks over to her and leans down, but before she can say anything there's a knock on the door.

" _Get up,"_ she hisses, grip tight on Mithian's arm as she hauls her to her feet before pulling the door open.

Merlin is on the other side. At first she can't bring herself to turn around and look at him, sure that if she does she'll give herself away and then her father will be dead; Arthur will be dead; _Merlin_ will be dead.

"I've come to bring the princess a draught, from Gaius. To help her sleep before our journey."

"Oh, how thoughtful, thank you. I can take it, of course —" Morgana tries to grab the vial from his hands and close the door in his face, but Merlin pushes back , too strong for an old woman to move against.

"I would feel better if I told the princess herself how to prescribe it, thank you, Hilda."

Now Mithian turns around to look at him, only to find he's already looking at _her;_ his gaze is piercing and steady, confident in a way that makes her want to give in to the exhaustion and the pain and tell him everything — and maybe he'll take her hand and comfort her and tell her _it's alright, I forgive you. We'll figure this out._

 _You're safe, now._

"My Lady?"

She holds his gaze too long before replying; she blinks her tears away, feels the burning in her throat recede, tucks the tempest of her sorrow in the deepest corner of her heart.

"Yes, of course. Come in, Merlin."

Mithian does not sleep; she can feel the ghost of Merlin's touch, gentle and strong along her arm. It leaves a tingling under her skin, makes her fingers clench and unclench in her quilts; leaves a restlessness in her legs.

 _If you need_ anything, _you can come to me or Gaius for help, My Lady,_ he told her. How he knew to speak low enough that her maid could not hear, she didn't know. _You know where the physician's chambers are, don't you?_

She clutches her comb tighter in her hand, takes a breath.

Morgana sleeps at the table, her head resting on the wooden surface. She had been holding the key to the door in a grip Mithian was sure she would not be able to break, but as the hours went by and Morgana sunk deeper and deeper into sleep, her grip slackened and now the key only lies under the cage of her fingers.

 _If I'm careful,_ Mithian thinks. _If I'm careful._

If she's careful, she can trade the comb for the key. It's a trick she practiced enough in her youth, teasing her younger cousins and nursemaids and tutors; why should this be any different?

Mithian runs a finger along the now cool silver of the bracelet on her wrist. She can't bring herself to look at the burns that lie underneath.

And perhaps _that_ is what makes her move, pull back the covers and slip out of bed; she doesn't bother grabbing a shawl or a cover, and keeps her steps light until she reaches the table.

She doesn't realize she is holding her breath or that all of her muscles have tensed up, completely focused on slipping the key from underneath Morgana's hand and replacing it with the comb.

Inch by inch by inch it slides across the table, until suddenly it's free and she quickly places her comb between the witch's fingers. Morgana shifts but doesn't rise, and Mithian could almost laugh she is so relieved.

She unlocks the door and breaks into a run.

She doesn't knock, doesn't think; she scrambles for the handle and almost sobs in relief when the door gives under her weight. She falls into the room, doused in darkness but for the slowly fading embers in the hearth.

The noise startles Gaius awake, grunting as he sits up in his cot and fumbles for a candle. From upstairs, Merlin bangs the door open and forgoes the steps completely, jumping onto the main level of the physician's chambers.

"Mithian?!" He cries, running towards her. He stops when he sees her expression, the fear and the guilt and —

"— _gana."_ She chokes. _"It's Morgana."_

Understanding dawns on him, and now he does reach out; he folds her into his arms, presses her close to his chest. She grabs ahold of him tightly, fingers clawing at the back of his tunic. He strokes her hair and shushes her, casting a wide-eyed look at Gaius. _She's in the castle?!_

"Mithian." Merlin pulls away, takes her face between his palms and brushes her hair back. Her eyes are wide but clear, and Merlin can tell that telling someone of this secret has lifted a burden from her shoulders, no matter the danger it poses to her. "Were you followed?"

She shakes her head. "No, I don't think so. She was asleep when I escaped."

"How did she…? I mean, did she enchant the door?"

Mithian lowers her gaze, her face heating with shame. She fiddles with the sleeve of her right arm. "I… no. She h — she hurts me a little, that's all. I should — I shouldn't have been so weak."

Merlin frowns and looks down to her wrist. He can see a block of silver, and he gestures to it with his hands, asking, _can I see?_

She nods, but still does not meet his gaze. He hisses in sympathy when he looks at the burn, raw and oozing and hot to the touch.

"She's torturing you," he says, distraught. Mithian slips her arm from his grip and tucks it to her middle.

 _Is there no limit to your cruelty, Morgana?_

A laugh echoes through the room, startling them all as like smoke the witch walks from the shadows, eyes shining brilliantly with hate and magic. She kicks the door the rest of the way open, seething. "Of course she would come to _you,_ _Merlin,_ always such a thorn in my side."

And when she raises her hand, Mithian falls back and screams in pain, gripping tightly to her arm. The bracelet burns blue with heat, eating away at her sleeve; Merlin sees red, and without thinking he lifts his hand and _shoves._

Morgana screeches and flies backwards into the wall, knocking vials and books off the shelves with the force of her impact. She crumples to the ground, and doesn't rise.

Mithian is similarly moved, but pulled _to_ him, instead; cradled in Merlin's arms, she does her best to try and push him away, panicking and breathing hard. "No! You have — _magic_ — "

"No! Mithian, please, just — "

He chokes, windpipe constricting. He drops his arms from Mithian and claws at his own throat, turning his gaze to Morgana on the floor, her own eyes focused on him and her white-knuckled fist trembling with the force of her intent.

"It's _you!_ This _entire time_ it's been _YOU!"_

Merlin's eyes flash, and Morgana is thrown back once more. Merlin pushes Mithian behind him, but there's no point; Morgana screams with rage and is gone in a gale of unnatural wind.

 _I will have your blood, Emrys,_ she shrieks, her voice ringing like clashing steel in his mind, _and I will have Arthur's head!_

Merlin jumps to his feet. "She's going after Arthur!"

A hand on his sleeve stops him. Mithian is look at him imploringly, shaking her head. "Merlin, you can't go after her —I'm sorry I involved you in this, I shouldn't have — even if you do have magic, surely —"

"Mithian." Merlin holds her face between his palms, and the action is enough to startle her into silence. "It's alright. It's not your fault. I'm sorry you had to find out like that."

She stares back at him, eyes wide and searching; she nods, wrapping her fingers around his wrist in a gentle hold. "I'm sorry, too."

He smiles at her, _I know, it's alright, it's okay._

And then his eyes flash gold and he's gone, the door to the physician's chambers swinging in his wake.


	2. Revealed

It's a thought in the back of his mind — that _where are all the guards when you actually need them?_ — as he tears through the castle. Empty hallway after empty hallway Merlin runs with fear pumping the blood through his veins and spurring his legs on to move _faster_.

 _Why did I never bother trying to learn that bloody transportation spell?!_

He opens doors with a whisper, berating himself for not acting quicker, for being distracted by —

 _No, Mithian is not a distraction._

 _But Arthur is everything._

 _And Morgana is in the castle, and she knows that I'm Emrys._

It happens quickly.

Arthur wakes when his door slams open; Guinevere jumps awake, pulling the covers close and gasping. Arthur turns to reassure her, only to be slammed back by an unseen force. _Magic, then_ , he groans.

His back hits the stone wall of his room, hard, and his breath is chased from his lungs and he's left momentarily stunned; he hears Gwen cry out from a similar attack, on the other side of the room.

"Guinevere," he chokes.

But a figure steps in front of him, claw-like fingers wrapping around his throat; Morgana holds him against the wall with her bare hands, golden eyes never flickering or dimming.

"Hello, brother," she coos.

His heart clenches. _"Morgana."_

She presses him harder to the wall, her magic cold and dark against his skin. She sneers at him, lips pulled too wide and skin too pale.

"I want your head, dear brother. I want your head and I want Emrys' blood and I want what is _rightfully mine!"_

Arthur chokes again as she slams him back once more. Gwen cries out for him, but he can see she's completely immobile, held with her arms spread wide against the wall opposite from him.

"You don't want Guinevere, then. Let her go. You only want me, let her go."

She scoffs, "No."

She's angry, Arthur notices. Angrier than he's ever seen her, with a crazed glint in her eye and a constant tremor in her frame.

He also notices that he recognizes her dress; simple and black and with a headpiece like one a servant of Nemeth would wear.

"You're Mithian's maid. You — you're holding her hostage." _But something ruined her plans._

Morgana ignores him in favour of stroking his cheek with the back of her hand, her expression turning to one of feigned pity. "Oh, poor Arthur. It's remarkable, truly, the number of traitors you have in your court."

"Mithian is no traitor — you're holding her hostage."

She laughs, "He truly does have everyone fooled!"

Arthur shakes his head. "What are you talking about, Morgana?"

Immediately her eyes turn cold, glinting in the low light of the room. She steps into his space, just a breath away. "You've a sorcerer in your midst, brother dear," she whispers, eyes wide and playing innocent. "Will you have me tell you his name, so that you can burn him in the morn?"

"Quit playing _games,_ Morgana,"

She smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes. "Who would have thought, Merlin, a sorcerer?"

Dread settles like a weight in his gut, blood turning cold in his veins. "You're lying."

"What reason would I have to lie about this?"

And Arthur can see it, can see that _this_ is the reason behind her rage. "You actually believe that."

She goes to answer, but stops and quirks her head to the side as if listening to something. She smirks and turns to the door, mouth widening and eyes gleaming. "Well, you'll see now just how true it is, I suppose."

The door bangs open a second time, and Merlin storms into the room, furious and haggard. His eyes widen when he sees the state of the room, Arthur and Gwen both pinned to the walls by Morgana's magic and Morgana's hands around Arthur's throat.

"Morgana," his voice is low and hums with power and authority in a way Arthur doesn't recognize. "Let them go."

"Or what, Merlin? You'll poison me? Perhaps something other than hemlock, I think I've developed an immunity."

Merlin narrows his eyes, and Arthur recognizes the flash of regret that crosses his expression. Their actions speak of a history unknown to Arthur, and it throws him off balance. Doubt creeps into his mind, sounding eerily like the voice of his father. _Can you really trust anyone, Arthur?_

"You're a traitor to your king and you're a traitor to your kind, _Emrys."_ She hisses, keeping tight her hold on Arthur. "Who are _you,_ to receive such a title? Such a destiny?"

Merlin paces slowly with his hands held at his side, but Arthur can tell it's only an appearance of _relaxed_. He can see Merlin's shoulders are tense and his eyes dart quickly around the room, checking on them both and making sure to watch Morgana's every move.

"You are too quick to twist things for your own convenience, Morgana. You wish to paint yourself the hero. But you're hurting them, Morgana. Arthur has never done you any wrong."

" _He's a Pendragon."_

Merlin's eyes flash, anger and impatience known in every line of his face. _"So are you!"_

" _Don't you dare speak to me like that!_ Uther Pendragon was _no_ father of mine!" And that's what makes her snap, what gives Arthur a split second to react and slip between her magic and _push_ — and then he's on the floor, gasping, reaching for anything he can use as a weapon.

He sees Excalibur, set across his desk. Too far, _too far._

Morgana screeches something behind him, something in a language he doesn't understand and then Merlin is responding in kind and Arthur can't think about that, can only try and reach his sword —

A hand appears in his sight, hovering over his; dark and smooth and soft and then Gwen is grabbing hold of him, pulling him out of the way of Morgana and Merlin and their treachery, pulling them back until they hit the side of their bed, panting and watching with eyes widened by fear and betrayal.

Morgana is the one pinned to the wall now, held in place with magic and Merlin's arm pressed across her throat. Both of them are breathing hard, and the dagger he keeps tucked in his boot is now gripped tightly in hand, pressed between Morgana's ribs.

Morgana snarls at him and tries to push him away with magic, but Merlin's hold is strong; he puts the slightest weight on the dagger and it bites into her skin. She barely flinches.

"No mortal blade can kill me," she hisses. Quick as a snake, she pulls her own dagger from her sleeve and drives it into Merlin's gut.

Gwen cries out and clutches Arthur closer to her, but Arthur remains speechless; traitorous thoughts of _but he's a sorcerer,_ and _perhaps this is for the best,_ cross his mind before a choked, broken gasping brings him back to the present.

A laugh.

Merlin is _laughing._

Morgana rears back as much as she can when already forced against the wall, taken aback by Merlin's reaction. She pulls the dagger from his core, blood already staining his tunic.

Merlin leans forward, bearing more of his weight down onto Morgana. "I am the one who walks in your shadow, Morgana. I am your destiny; I am your doom," Morgana's eyes widen in recognition at the words, but Merlin pays no attention to her growing fear.

He leans down until he is looking her right in the eye. "I am Emrys. Why would you think a mortal blade would kill _me?"_

Morgana's whimper is the only break in the awful silence as the dagger slips deeper into her flesh; Arthur unconsciously pulls Guinevere closer to him.

Merlin, traitor and monster and completely unknown to him, doesn't break eye contact with his sister as he growls, _"Leave."_

And she does. She falls from his grip and runs right for the window; it blows open with a single, frantic wave of her hands and she leaps into the night, turning to smoke and a murder of crows, leaving only darkness in her wake.

Mithian sits, dazed, in the physician's chambers. She's wringing her hands but barely notices; Gaius paces, casting nervous glances her way.

 _He wants to go after Merlin,_ she realizes. _But thinks he can't leave me alone._

She thinks of Merlin's hands, strong and calloused but gentle. When she looked at his hands she could see his loyalty, his faith and his strength. His loneliness. She thinks of the way she didn't hesitate to go to him first, instead of Arthur.

 _And who can he rely on, in such a situation?_ She rises from her seat; Gaius stops his pacing and looks at her in surprise.

"My Lady?"

She hides the shaking of her hands by tucking them into her sleeves. "We're going after Merlin."

He gapes, shocked; she lifts her brows in challenge. "Well?"

Gaius flounders. "My Lady, I'm glad you are not upset by what Merlin has revealed to you, but he _is_ going after Morgana, a sorceress who has until just tonight been keeping you hostage. It would be wise to wait here."

Mithian sighs, giving Gaius a small, sad smile. She approaches him and lays a hand on his arm. "But you're worried about him," she turns, searches the room until she spots a carving knife on the table. She picks it up, twists it in her grip. "There. Now we aren't completely defenceless, either."

He smiles at her, and if he notices the slight waver in her voice he doesn't mention it. She's grateful for it.

"Thank you, my Lady."

She shakes her head, "It's the least I can do, Gaius. He doesn't deserve to be alone in his fight."

Merlin doesn't turn around to face them. As soon as Morgana is gone, his body loses some of its tension, shoulders dropping and head low; one hand is held up to the wound in his gut, the other is held tightly in a fist at his side. Arthur can hear his laboured breathing from the other side of the room.

Given the circumstances, he almost looks _calm._

 _Does that mean he isn't scared of me?_ And for some reason that angers Arthur, but he doesn't take a moment to wonder if it's anger at Merlin or anger at himself — _why would the thought of Merlin not being scared of him make him angry? —_ it's immediate and overwhelming and it makes Arthur's teeth hurt he's clenching his jaw so hard.

"Who are you?" Arthur asks. Merlin shifts, stands taller, and starts to turn around; Arthur stops him.

"No! No, don't turn around," he hisses. "I don't want to see your eyes, sorcerer."

Merlin stiffens. _"Arthur,"_ he says, voice hoarse. "You know me."

"No, I don't." Arthur stands, hands shaking with anger. "You _lied."_

"Only because I had to," Merlin whispers. He tries to turn around to face Arthur again, but Arthur reacts only by leaping for Excalibur on his desk. The blade rings as it swings through the air and the tip stops a breath from Merlin's spine. He flinches, and then goes still.

There's a pool of blood collecting under Merlin's feet.

"You never _have_ to lie, Merlin."

"And look at where the truth has gotten me," he says, choking on a laugh. It's a sound cracking on hysteria, and Arthur can almost picture the broken smile on Merlin's face, that resigned defeat, that sadness that colours his features every now and then. But Arthur can't trust it, not anymore.

He know that if Merlin turns around, he'll believe it. And he can't let himself be fooled again. Not even for Merlin.

Arthur hears his own voice as if from far away, and he twists Excalibur to force Merlin forward. "Merlin of Ealdor, I hereby banish you from Camelot, and should you ever return you will be executed on sight."

" _Arthur,_ you can't really —"

"Do _not_ speak, _sorcerer."_ Gwen grabs at his arm, but he brushes her off. "You have until dawn to gather your things and leave."


End file.
